


The Sea, Cold

by Siria



Category: First Monday, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-25
Updated: 2006-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian has always been an over-achiever. He never considered it an impediment. Not when everyone else in his quietly prestigious high school was off at parties. Not at the beginning of a new school year, when his classmates were selecting classes for fun, not because they were AP and would look good on applications. Not when he had to spend careful hours grooming himself to look just so, speak just so, think just so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sea, Cold

**Author's Note:**

> To Cate and Eliza, for their encouragement.

Julian has always been an over-achiever. He never considered it an impediment. Not when everyone else in his quietly prestigious high school was off at parties. Not at the beginning of a new school year, when his classmates were selecting classes for fun, not because they were AP and would look good on applications. Not when he had to spend careful hours grooming himself to look just so, speak just so, _think_ just so.

He's never considered it an impediment, as such; it's just another thing he could use. It got him to Harvard, it took him onwards to where he wanted to be, to where he is today; he knows it will take him even further. Right now, though, it's taken him to a reception for some of the top members of the Air Force, a large private ballroom full of blue uniforms and subdued, carefully political talk.

It isn't something that the Senior Clerk of the Supreme Court would normally be involved in or should care about; but Chief Justice Brankin owes a favour or two to someone on Capitol Hill, there's an Appropriations Committee meeting coming up, and Justice Brankin knows that Julian's Saturday night is, unsurprisingly, free. He also knows that Julian's face is both unknown to most people there, and pretty enough to invite confidences; and Julian is always eager to help.

He can be trusted, and he knows how to go about it. He's been getting sidelong glances all night, mostly from the few female members of the Air Force there, or from the handful of bored politicians' wives who are scattered throughout the room. Julian always makes sure to find himself near them, making polite, idle small talk, twisting the conversation in the direction of something he wants to know, something he can use. These women may not always know anything directly, be involved directly, especially not the trophy wives; but Julian has spent long enough in the claustrophobic atmosphere of Washington, spent long enough cultivating his little network amongst the other law clerks, that he's learned that nearly everyone knows something he can make work for him.

There are a few glances, too, sly and discreet, from some of the other men in the room, careful attempts at starting conversations which would lead in the direction of something other than politics or sports scores, but Julian makes himself ignore them.

Julian has always been good at not letting himself think about that.

The only one not being discreet is a man on the far side of the room; it's more than just the occasional glance over in Julian's direction. Bright, bright blue eyes, and like Julian, one of the few men in evening wear, not dress blues, an obviously hired suit stretched over broad shoulders. Julian has seen him knock back five or six whiskys already, snatched from the trays carried by the circulating waiters; despite that, his gaze is still steady and frank, like Julian is something to study or appraise. It makes Julian feel nervous, skittish. In the intervals between Julian's cautious flirting with one carefully made-up blonde and the next, he glances over at the other man.

It's not because he's interested. He isn't, he _wouldn't_, and yet somehow, over the course of the evening, he still finds himself gravitating towards that side of the room, working his way through the crowd with a careful smile on his face and the constant awareness of those eyes, heating the skin at the nape of his neck. His skin prickles beneath the fine cloth of his tuxedo.

Moving cautiously over, and Julian surprises himself by speaking to the man first. If there had been a part of his brain thinking about a conversation with him, Julian would have figured him for the kind of guy who'd be vulgar enough, desperate enough to speak up first. There is something in the way he stands, the way he talks—infrequently—to the other guests, the loose and telling line of his mouth. If Julian had been a betting man, he would have put good money on the other man talking to him first, an awkward hello or an obscure and unsubtle remark on the weather.

Instead, Julian finds himself the one easing awkwardly into the other man's space, the one who says "You must be here with General Hammond? He and my father were old friends. My name is Lodge, Julian Lodge."

He puts out his hand, half expecting, not really hoping that the other man would shake it, would grasp it just that little bit too long. Instead, he earns himself a look which couldn't truly be called contemptuous only because there is so much obvious amusement mixed in as well.

"Please," the man says. "I've heard weaker attempts at digging for information from the FBI's special brand of trained monkeys when I was twelve and they weren't even attempting subtlety. Which, really, you'd think they would have thought might come in useful when it seemed like they might be dealing with a genius pre-adolescent terrorist with a penchant for mocking their really pathetic interrogation techniques."

Julian blinks slowly.

"Let's start this over, shall we?" he continues. "I'm Rodney McKay, _Dr_ Rodney McKay. You're Julian Lodge, and I presume"—flicker of sharp eyes up and down the length of him—"given the lack of dress blues and the fact that your suit manages to be both very expensive and very, very silly, that you are a politician of some shape or form. The bow-tie makes me think Republican, as does the general po-faced smarm thing you've got going on." He quirks his head to one side. "Though the hair is just experimental enough to leave an element of doubt. _Maybe_ just a very eccentric Libertarian."

Julian is uncomfortably aware of the fact that his mouth was now hanging open, that more than one person is staring at them, at him, and that his hand is still outstretched for the other man—for McKay—to shake. He shuts his mouth with a snap, and stuffs his hand into the pocket of his trousers, even though he knows that he is ruining the line of a $3000 Oscar de la Renta suit.

"I'm not a politician," he says, a little bit more tightly than he normally allowed himself. "I'm Senior Law Clerk to the Supreme Court."

"Ah. Which would mean that I'm right on both the Republican thing and on the digging for information thing," McKay says, voice warm and more than a little smug.

"I'm here at the invitation of the Chief Justice," Julian says, trying to retreat back behind the kind of seemingly mild charm which has always worked so well for him.

"Digging for information," McKay repeats in a sing-song voice which seems calculated to infuriate. Julian finds himself draining the last of his wine from his glass with a little bit more enthusiasm than this Chardonnay really deserves.

"I really have no idea what you're talking about," Julian says, face as open as he can make it while really showing nothing, eyebrows quirking upwards. "I'm simply here as a representative of Chief Justice Brankin; he had a prior engagement, so he asked me to attend in his place." A truth, if a partial one—a couple of years working in Washington has taught Julian that they are often the best kind to tell.

McKay snorts. "Yes, that's very convincing, well done," he says, knocking back what has to be his seventh—eighth?—whisky of the evening.

"Are you sure you should be drinking that much?" Julian says, frowning a little. He's seen enough from an early age to know that somewhere between the eighth and the ninth whisky is generally where the vomiting and the uncomfortable truth portion of the evening begins. It's never been a time that Julian's been particularly fond of, and really, the last thing he wants is McKay collapsing on top of him.

McKay deposits the now empty glass back on the tray of a passing waiter. "Yes, well," he says, "I'm going to Siberia in the morning. Literally."

Julian's eyebrows rise a little. "You're leaving for Russia tomorrow, facing into a twelve hour flight, and you're spending the night before at a function like this?"

"Free alcohol, free food," McKay says, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm a man of simple tastes."

Julian somehow doubts that's true. "And those simple tastes involve nearly an entire bottle of Laphroaig?"

"Siberia," McKay repeats significantly. "Not exactly known for its, how shall I put it, its balmy climate and sunny skies, now is it? I'm indulging in the time honoured method of raising my body temperature enough that my face doesn't freeze into the, the rictus of glee which the prospect of years in Arctic weather, surly Russians and the stench of borscht is sure to induce."

"I see," Julian says carefully. "Well, that sounds like an excellent plan."

"I thought so," McKay says obliviously. "I'm known for my good plans. Mostly."

Around them, the babble of voices is steadily growing louder, as alcohol slowly works its way into the systems of half a hundred of the most powerful men and women in Washington, as the room becomes warmer and stuffier, as the conversation becomes looser and warmer, interspersed here and there with bursts of laughter that is almost genuine. The heat seems to be working on McKay; for all that he is still chattering away about Russia's weather and the penance that is forced attendance at idiotic functions like these, about unnaturally high expectations and some guy called Sam, his face is becoming flushed, his speech just that little bit slower, more slurred. When he reaches out to snag yet another glass from a passing waiter, Julian puts out a hand to stop him.

"Are you sure that's such a good idea?" he says, a little bit more harshly than he'd intended, especially since he doesn't really know why he cares that McKay is a little bit more than a mouthful away from passing out in the middle of the ballroom floor. "I'm pretty sure you've had enough for one night, international relocation aside."

McKay looks up at him, eyes over bright and still startlingly _there_ for a man who's probably consumed so much alcohol that he couldn't go too near an open flame right now. For a moment, he looks angry, angry enough to startle Julian, line of his jaw tight and tip-tilted. Then his shoulders slump downwards a little, and he sighs. "No, you're right, you're right. I should. I should go back to my hotel room, find a cab. I..."

McKay presses the heel of one hand into his eye, and Julian says "Maybe you should just go outside and get some fresh air? Or go to the restroom?"

"Yes, actually, yes," McKay says, "Yes, that would be—" He looks around the room as if he can't quite remember where the door is, as if he doesn't quite know how to get out of here. In the space of a few minutes, the air of self-assurance which has clung to McKay since Julian first saw him has vanished, and he gazes around him as if he's not quite sure how he got here.

"I can show you, if you'd like," Julian says, reaching out tentatively so that one hand curves around McKay's elbow, almost but not quite touching him. McKay nods, and Julian leads him towards the door.

Near the door, they pass General Hammond. Julian nods him, ventures a small smile. He gets a curt smile back, a stiff nod; Uncle George hasn't exactly been overly friendly to him for a couple of years, not since things finally went to hell with his family, and he made it into Harvard Law and got away from them. There's still enough residual good-will left, though, that Hammond doesn't stop Julian from steering McKay out of the room, and doesn't display more than the faintest hint of curiosity.

Outside of the room, it's cooler. Cold, wet autumn air floods through the open door at the far end of the hallway, making Julian realise just how hot he'd been in that room, just how much his shirt is clinging damply to the curve of his back. "It's this way, I think," he says, steering McKay to the left and down the darkened corridor, away from the clamour of the ballroom and towards where he remembers the restrooms being.

McKay weaves slightly as the fresh air hits him, just for a few moments; then it seems to help him, he seems to sober up a little. When he looks up at Julian, his pupils aren't quite so glazed, quite so blown, the expression in them something closer to that look of appraisal Julian saw at the beginning of the evening.

They round the corner, and come to a halt in front of the restroom; here, the noise from the ballroom has faded away completely, and the only light comes from a couple of dingy bulbs further down the hallway. More government cutbacks — _necessary retrenchments_, Julian's brain helpfully supplies, _it's always necessary_ — but Julian can't really bring himself to mind so much. It's dark where they're standing, and McKay is watching him in perfect quietness.

It's more than a little unnerving. Julian says "Will you be okay here? Would you like me to-" and then McKay is reaching up and curling a hand around the nape of Julian's neck, fingers twining loosely into the fine hairs there as he pulls Julian's mouth to his. It's brief, more a query than a kiss, soft and dry and seeking, only the briefest hint of McKay's tongue brushing against Julian's lips.

He pulls back after a couple of seconds, looks at Julian, and Julian stares back at him. He licks his lips, mouth stuttering around the words of protest he knows he should be saying. "You've, you've got the wrong idea," he says, "I don't, I don't want, I'm not—"

McKay just rolls his eyes, ignores him, and leans forward to kiss him again. Julian puts up his hands, bracing them against McKay's chest so that he can push him away. He's going to push him away, he is; but the brush of McKay's lips against his is warm, so warm, sparking nerve endings to life wherever they touch his. Then tongue, tentative, and Julian finds himself groaning, finds himself kissing back, mouth opening, hands not pushing McKay away but instead curling themselves into the front of McKay's dress shirt. Julian is cold everywhere, except for where McKay is touching him, mouth furnace hot, fingers ten points of radiating heat on Julian's hips. Julian's mind is racing, a thousand thousand times a minute, his heart rate not far behind, and he knows he doesn't want this, he _shouldn't_, but he finds himself leaning in anyway. When McKay pulls away, Julian finds himself whimpering a little bit, chasing the taste of him.

They're silent for a moment, quiet, while McKay studies him and Julian's breathing grows even harsher. Whatever McKay sees in him makes him shake his head a little; he grabs Julian's arm, fingers clasped around Julian's wrist, tight enough to press his cuff-links into the fine bones of his wrist, almost painfully. He pushes him in through the door of the restroom, lets the heavy mahogany swing shut behind them. The room is empty, the ceilings high, and the soft tread of their dress shoes echoes back to them off the marble floor. There's little chance of someone following them in here, but McKay still drags a chair over and wedges it underneath the door handle.

Then McKay's pushing him back against the wall, letting the dark wood of the panelling hold him up and keep him from falling. Julian tries to protest, he tries, because this isn't him, it never has been, no matter how many times he heard _faggot_ in the schoolyard, no matter how many times he choked and shuddered and came to thoughts he shouldn't have, alone in a cold shower cubicle. But McKay doesn't let him, stops up Julian's mouth with his own words instead, says _I saw you watching me all evening_ and _you'll like this, I promise_ and _you want this, I know you do_.

Julian's trembling all over as McKay slips down his body, working his trousers open and pushing them down to tangle around his thighs. By the time McKay is nosing at his cock, mouthing lust and desperation through the thin, damp cotton of his briefs, Julian is achingly hard, more turned on than he can ever remember being. It's such a relief, a _relief_, when McKay pulls his briefs away and down from his cock, and Julian can't stop his hips from twitching forward, looking for something, anything.

McKay looks up at him for a moment, eyes blue like the sky after rain, pupils darkened in a way which lets Julian know that McKay is just as turned on as he is. The thought makes Julian moan quietly, lungs unable to suck in quite enough air. McKay just grins, lips curving into a smile that broadens and reshapes itself as McKay slides his mouth down Julian's cock. It's all heat and wetness and gentle suction, broad swipes and gently curling tip of tongue. It feels so _good_, McKay's hands gently urging his hips forward, urging him to give in, and Julian can't help the gasp that escapes him when the head of his cock bumps against the back of McKay's throat.

Pleasure is coiling at the base of Julian's spine, making his eyes slide closed, his breath come quick and fast. McKay's hands are broad and warm, tracing soothing circles of warmth wherever they touch him, one stroking down to gently cup his balls. It's good, so good, gentle but firm, and Julian can feel himself letting go, giving in, hips surging forward to fuck McKay's mouth, and it's the best, nastiest thing Julian's ever let himself have. McKay strokes a finger back over his balls, back to caress the smooth skin and tight muscle. Julian's gasping, he's so close, white heat flaring behind his eyelids; and then his whole body jerks, contracting and shivering, when McKay presses one broad finger up and into him, stroking over something inside him that makes Julian hiss "No" and "_Yes_" all at once, eyelids fluttering open.

Eyes open, he looks across the restroom to the full-length mirror which is propped against the wall. Julian doesn't recognise himself at first. Not the way he's standing there, head thrown back and throat exposed, eyes wide and shocky. Not the way he's standing there with his pants around his knees and his dress shirt rucked up around his stomach, with his cock in some stranger's mouth, with some guy's fingers up his ass, wanting it, moaning for it, loving it.

Julian stares at himself in the mirror, trying to find himself in there somewhere; and then McKay crooks a finger inside him and that's it. A gasp inhaled, a gasp exhaled; and then Julian is coming, he's coming, head slammed back against the wall, body arched, legs spreading and spine curling, and it's good, it's so good, it's fucking _fantastic_.

He's quivering all over by the time McKay stands back up, muttering quietly to himself about the state of his knees. McKay isn't looking him in the eye; looks, in fact, like he's planning on doing nothing more than to leave as soon as possible, without even pushing for Julian to get him off in turn. Julian can guess what McKay's thinking, that this isn't meant to be anything more than a quick and cheap fuck before one of them goes off to a life of Arctic misery and the other reverts to a life of repression.

But Julian knows exactly what it means. He fights to stop his hands from shaking, fights to stop his hands from burying themselves in McKay's hair, fine and soft like raw silk, because he knows exactly what it means, he understands right away. Julian's always been clever. Like his grandmother always said, _in for a penny, in for a pound_; and if thoughts of his grandmother at a time like this make him want to laugh a little hysterically, he hides it by dragging McKay closer to him and kissing him until they're both breathless and Julian's almost hard again just from the taste of himself in another man's mouth.

"Show me," he says against McKay's mouth, hand burrowing up beneath McKay's suit jacket and shirt so that he can splay his fingers out over all that warm, sweat-damp skin. McKay's all heat next to him, an Indian summer's worth, late and overwhelming. "Show me how, I want to, I want to make you come, I want to suck you now."

McKay's groaning, now, looking as debauched as any person Julian's ever seen. Eyes half closed, hands shaking as he fumbles with his fly and pushes Julian to his knees, now he looks as drunk as Julian feels. He gasps when Julian licks tentatively across the head of his cock, whimpers when Julian sucks the tip of it into his mouth. Julian glories in it, humming contentedly at the smell and the taste, the feel of silky soft skin that's slick with pre-come and his own saliva, the sharp press of McKay's hipbones underneath his thumbs.

Some distant corner of his mind is already wondering how he's going to present this to Brankin in the morning, how he's going to edit and compose it carefully so that it's all safe and neat and acceptable, so that he can still want this, now that he knows he can have it. But then McKay shudders against him, and Julian's not worried that he won't be able to manage it. He's always been an over-achiever.


End file.
